


A Wave Across the Land

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Pandemics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:27:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: This will be a series of drabbles, because that's what seems to be coming right now.I'm not a doctor, or medical professional.  I can only imagine.  I am Sheltering In Place, or Social Distancing, as are most people who are taking this seriously here.  There are, of course, those who are not.  It's been two weeks - I'm halfway through my third week of work being closed, and am only now writing.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Biological Clock [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/62053
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a series of drabbles, because that's what seems to be coming right now. 
> 
> I'm not a doctor, or medical professional. I can only imagine. I am Sheltering In Place, or Social Distancing, as are most people who are taking this seriously here. There are, of course, those who are not. It's been two weeks - I'm halfway through my third week of work being closed, and am only now writing.

The warning came in the new year, shortly before Sherlock’s birthday. Dr. John Watson did not so much see it all coming, as was given a discrete heads up by someone he knew “in government” fairly early on. He was not able to keep it from his partner. Even the children noticed that their father was disturbed about something. But he did not bring it up as a topic of discussion either.

The broom closet now held two gallon jugs of bleach, and a moderate amount of cleaning supplies. The medical kit under the bathroom sink was re-stocked – that was nothing unnatural. John was always updating and ensuring that supplies were available for unexpected health situations.

However, a new kit was set up and stored under the double bed in their room. There was protective medical gear for two adults, emergency supplies for infants and children. Not enough, of course, for all eventuality in an apocalyptic situation. John Watson was not a man to plan for imaginary possibilities. Like, say, a zombie incursion. He did not lay in a supply of shotguns and ammo. And John was not the type of man to hoard items that would be required for medical professionals in a crisis. 

The good doctor had prepared a completely (he was sure) unecessary shopping list for his brother-in-law’s household. Once those things were taken care of, John Watson began to read. He was a surgeon, a veteran of the army, and used to dealing with trauma. Even though that included working with infections sweeping through hospitals, epidemics were not his speciality. 

Long fingers reached over to turn off the intercom system in the sitting room. “You’re expecting something,” Sherlock said to him. The children were in bed, they wouldn’t be hearing them through the – as Miri put it – grown up monitor, and he’d put off this discussion until the last case was over. It had been an intriguing case starting as a treasure hunt of a will, and ending in murder. “What did Mycroft tell you?”

“Do you remember all of those people who were ill in November and December? ‘Something going around’?” John looked up from his laptop, and an article on bat physiology and disease.

“It’s coming around again?” his tall detective didn’t fling himself into his usual thinking position, instead standing by John’s chair and examining the screen, “Or it’s a weaponized virus?”

“I think that’s going to be the biggest conspiracy theory,” John admitted. “Newest novel coronavirus from China. They’re keeping information under tight wraps though. It’s not showing up in the journals, or on the news.”

Sherlock’s scoff was tangible, “The news. As though they care about correct information. Are you reading between the lines in the articles? Sometimes you miss things, John.”

John grimaced, “That’s just it. There was nothing. No hint. And now rumors are starting to come out from behind the bamboo firewall.”

Reaching down to run his fingers through the greying blond hair, Sherlock asked, “Is this one of those scenarios where we pack up the children, and move to the cottage in Sussex? Because that’s hardly secluded anymore. Even if we started building a wall now.”

“If we’re needed here?” John asked in reply.

“I find,” Sherlock said dryly, “That my taste for that sort of adventure is overwhelmed by the need to provide safety for our offspring. For that matter, for Greg and Mycroft’s as well. I didn’t go to all that trouble to keep Guillaume alive to have him taken from us by a germ.”

“Mycroft won’t leave, will he?” John said, staring at, but not seeing the words on the screen.

“It’s even odds that he’ll be sent away to ensure that he doesn’t get infected. It’s Lestrade that would be a problem. He’ll be a major part of the London schematic if this thing goes tits up.”

John’s laugh was painful. “Tits up? Not something I ever expected to hear from you.”

“You’re not planning on charging into the fray to combat this thing, are you?” 

“No. No, I’ll be making certain that you and the kids are safe. But I can’t see this administration spending to ensure the safety of the common man. Can you?” John closed the laptop and looked up into his husband’s face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t know who is in charge. Not much point. But I can tell you that they’ll spend money on their own class and put it into their own pockets before they put a drop into the pail for the commonweal.”

“What,” the tall, thin man took the moment to cast himself onto the couch,”Does my brother suggest?”

“Mycroft hasn’t said much. He’s trying to push for common sense.”

That brought a bitter laugh. “Human nature and their tiny little brains? Mycroft can’t be serious. That’s like asking a goldfish to fly.” 

“Sherlock,” John said thoughtfully, “We don’t have room at the cottage for Mrs. Hudson. Usually the elderly are the most vulnerable in an epidemic.”

“Then we’re obviously not leaving Baker Street, are we?” Sherlock folded his hands in front of his face, “Best start planning for a siege, Captain Watson.”

“A siege? We’re not talking about roving gangs in the streets, Sherlock. We’ll have to follow fairly strict hygiene protocols, but if we’re staying in London, we can’t shut ourselves up here in the flat. You’d go insane!” John said pointedly. Then, “And you’d take me with you. For the fun of it!”

“Truer words were never spoken, John,” said Mycroft from the doorway.

Sherlock shot a sideways glance from his pose on the couch. “How did you get up the stairs without making any noise?” he demanded.

“Practice, brother mine,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Turning to John he said, “I came to offer the use of the family house in Scotland. I will be relocating there with the children, and thought that homeschooling would be more enjoyable with Siger, Miranda, and Rosalind as well.”

It was amazing, John thought, how quickly his detective could leap from a lying position. “You’re considering it, aren’t you? John, you thought that imuring me in Baker Street would drive me insane, but you’re considering sequestering me in a house with Mycroft. Are you mad?” Sherlock demanded.

John started to open his mouth, but Mycroft spoke first, “Of course, I am taking into account your proclivities, Sherlock. Sean has instituted several beehives since you were last there. And Greg has promised a variety of cold cases. Your section of the library remains, dusted and updated.”

John’s mouth opened again, only to be cut off by Sherlock, “You are not to treat Mrs. Hudson as a servant, Mycroft. She’s not your housekeeper!”

“Anna will be joining us at the house, Sherlock, and I am certain that she and Mrs. Hudson will get along splendidly,” Mycroft’s smile was assured.

John inserted a word in, “Greg is staying here, isn’t he?”

Mycroft nodded. “I can’t take him away from his work. It would look suspicious at this point in time. And later, it will not be possible.”

Sherlock communicated with only his eyebrows the obvious. He had been right. John chose to ignore that in the enormity of what Mycroft was telling him. “You think this is going to get well out of hand, don’t you?”

“I do,” Mycroft told him gravely, “Though I am doing all I can to mitigate the disaster.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s expression, John asked, “How much time do we have to organize this?”

“I’d like for us to leave London no later than the tenth of January. However, if we leave this Sunday, we can celebrate Sherlock’s birthday in Scotland. Gregory can come up with us, then leave on the seventh to come back to London.” John could not hear it, but Sherlock knew how unhappy his brother was about that.

John and Sherlock exchanged looks. Sherlock spoke slowly. “It would seem that we are going to Scotland.”

John jumped when Siger asked, from his seat on the wooden step in the hall, “Is it for a case? Are we trying not to be kidnapped?”

Mycroft pretended surprise, “Did you not know that the children were listening to your conversation?”

Sherlock grimaced, “We were otherwise occupied, as you well know.” He watched John gather their offspring together on the overstuffed chair with the flag cushion tossed at him. Their son perched on the arm, while Miranda and Rosalind climbed into their Daddy’s lap. “Siger, it is for an adventure. Which means that it might be difficult at times, and uncomfortable. Are you all willing to suffer with Uncle Mycroft and your cousins?”

There was no question in any of their minds. They were going to Scotland.


	2. A Little Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered what type of parent Mycroft would be? And what his children would be like? Joy was the youngest of the seven cousins.

Joyeux was little. The littlest of them all. She could only really speak four languages. Yet. Same as Will, her big brother. English and French, of course. British Sign Language was something they’d both spoken all her life. And then there was Ting Viet that she had learned from her cousins and Bert, their Au Pair. Not like Daddy. Or Uncle Lock. Who understood so many more. Of course, she had to admit, she spoke all of those four languages better than Uncle John, even if he did know Pashto. And swearing.

Uncle John was swearing now. He didn’t think they could hear him. That was when they learned new swears. “That incredible, bloody bastard! Our sodding Prime Minister! Isn’t attending meetings on the epidemic?” They had heard Uncle John, even out on the wide, front staircase. He had gone in to The Office with Daddy this morning, and Daddy's helper, Miss Anthea, had shut the big wooden door behind him. The Office was at the back of the house, behind the staircase, and they weren’t supposed to hear anything once the door closed. Uncle John was Just That Loud. And his niece seized the opportunity to learn some new vocabulary.

Joy perched on the bottom step, writing the words in her notebook. “How do I spell ‘munting’?” she asked her cousin, Siger, who was stretched out across the step above her. Her brother, Will, and the other cousins had continued outside to explore "the pond in winter" with Uncle Lock.

“I don’t know,” Siger said, “I don’t know that one. Probably as it sounds.”

“Muh-n-ting,” Joy printed precisely on the page marked ‘Uncle John’s Swears’.

“I’m not asking Dad what that means,” her red-haired cousin said absently, his nose in a book on Chopin. Chopin’s first name was spelled Fryderyk on the cover. Joy had obtained a promise from Siger that he would read the important bits to her once he had gone all the way through it once. She could read, just not as well as Siger. But he was, after all, older than she was.

Joy nodded in agreement. “I will ask Daddy later,” she said as she printed out ‘bell end’ carefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> munted adj. an extreme state of intoxication by way of drugs or alcohol such that the subject's ability to perform basic tasks such as walking and talking are significantly impared. (Urban Dictionary)
> 
> bell-end (plural bell-ends) (Britain, slang, vulgar) The glans penis. (Britain, slang, offensive, vulgar) A stupid or contemptible person (Wiktionary). There is another definition for New Zealand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adulting is hard.

Mycroft Holmes learned long ago to safeguard private conversations. He was nine when his baby brother became ambulatory, as opposed to mobile. Sherlock at two was old enough to understand many conversations, but was now also able to repeat them. That became an issue when Sherlock discovered a tiny space in their father’s large, mahogany desk, and loved to secret himself within it.

Father was a diplomat. Some of his diplomatic conversations were not for repeating.

Fortunately, their nannie had a clearance level for just that reason - Father having learned an important lesson from a precocious Mycroft. The difference between Mycroft and Sherlock – and it was an enormous difference – was that Mycroft had immediately understood the usefulness of having knowledge and not sharing it ‘round. Mycroft was not much of a talker. He was a master with words. He just loathed small talk, even at a young age.

Siger, Joyeux, and Guillaume were simple compared to Mycroft’s baby brother. Rose and Miranda were no trouble at all. The two little girls seemed to have very little interest in hiding in the first place, and spying in the second. Which was useful in their sequestration here at Dachaigh Dùthchail.

There were many rooms. Dachaigh Duthchail was not a palace, but it was large. From the tiny to the immense-in addition to the secure office, a huge library designed by Lorimer, a long formal dining room, kitchens able to provide for scores of guests, pantries, a breakfast room, a balcony above the curving wide front staircase, eleven bedrooms, and a host of small, intricate spaces, there were rooms that could be opened to become a ballroom, complete with parquet floor.

Mycroft slept fitfully, alone in his and Greg’s bedroom. Guillaume and Joyeux shared the large upstairs playroom with Siger, Miranda, and Rose. John laughed hysterically upon first sight of his and Sherlock’s room in the tower. “Of course. It’s a bloody tower room! With a stone spiral staircase! And we can only get to it from the library!” Sherlock’s response was a small smirk before he headed off to a far corner of the library. Leaving John to do the unpacking, of course.

Anthea, Mrs. Hudson, Anna, and George (Mycroft’s driver and primary bodyguard) each had their own rooms, and the remaining four were packed with more bodyguards and the household staff. Considering that the children were wildly outnumbered by those observant and dedicated men and women, three of the five managed to escape adult notice fairly consistently.

Then there was the much smaller, Dower House - which was generally used as a rental property. Currently the Lestrades were living in the Dower House with the remaining members of Mycroft’s security detail. Greg’s vivacious sister, Dolores, her daughter Evelyn and son-in-law Jonathan and their children. Emma and Daniel were Siger’s biological siblings, born within days of the boy at Moriarty’s Institute in an odd and intricate scientific experiment. Mycroft had organized their adoption by Greg’s niece and nephew.

With so many rooms, and nearly seventeen acres of property, Mycroft thought it a ridiculous thing that he could not find a private spot to call Gregory in London. The maids were cleaning the bedrooms. Sherlock and John and the children were rioting back and forth between the library and the second kitchen as they performed some arcane alchemical experimentation for the children’s schooling. Anthea was working on contingency plans with the security detail in the office. It was winter, and Mycroft really did not fancy legwork out of doors.

Therefore he was sitting on a dusty, elderly cane-bottomed chair in the echoing stone walled wine-cellar, between the racks of reds. He still had signal, as such was the privilege of a man of his minor government officialdom. “Gregory! How are you doing?” he spoke softly into the handset.

“Fine, love. Just fine. Missing you! Missing the kids!” Greg Lestrade couldn’t hide the relief in his voice. “How are you?”

“Alone. Desolate without you. Inundated by my brother and his very loud, very opinionated doctor. John must never enter the same room as Boris Johnson or his advisors, or your professional services will be required.” Mycroft thought that struck the right note of humor.

“Poor My,” Greg laughed, before saying consolingly, “I’ve sent you a box of caramels. Don’t share them with anyone. They don’t deserve it for deviling you!”

“Charbonnel et Walker?”

“The very same,” Mycroft pictured Gregory’s joyful grin to match the tone.

“How decadent of you,” Mycroft smiled and added, “And you kept the whiskey truffles to console you on your lonely nights?”

“I shared the whiskey truffles ‘round at work. Sally has a taste for them.” Greg’s tone changed, “Had to distract my team. They know something is up. You bein’ gone, and me going home to an empty house. I’m not that good of an actor.

“And then, there’s a distinct lack of Sherlock in our lives as well. They were bound to figure out something. And you know how Anderson is with his conspiracy theories.”

“Many and varied. Logic has no place in Dr. Anderson’s imagination,” Mycroft commented.

“Your sound quality is off, My. Where are you calling from?” Greg asked.

Mycroft leaned back in the creaking chair, “Picture me down in the wine-cellar, desperate for privacy in speaking with you.”

That obtained the laughter he was craving. “You’ll have to give me an in-depth tour the next time.”

“I,” Mycroft lowered his voice, making it as inviting as possible, “look forward to that.”

More laughter, then, “We need to stop that. I’m at work, and the squad are staring at me through the window. No privacy to make sure I’m respectable if I get called out.”

Listening to the creaking of fake leather from Gregory’s chair, Mycroft could imagine his spouse leaning back as well. “Respectability is over-rated,” he murmured.

“Sometimes,” Greg agreed. “So, how are Joy and Will? Surviving their cousins, and uncles?”

Their talk devolved to bits and pieces, the minutiae of life and children, the tedium of work. By the time that Anthea knocked politely on the cellar door, an hour had passed. Small things. Ordinary talk. But it refreshed Mycroft Holmes, and prepared him to rejoin the household.

Gregory Lestrade switched off his mobile, and returned to the paperwork demanding his attention with a refreshed spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, wishfic. But you can not tell me Mycroft would not take care of Greg's family. Especially the ones with his brother's blood in them.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want a really excellent series with Sherlock and John as doctors in the face of this pandemic, check out this work by J. Ballier. I highly recommend the entire series. https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411305
> 
> Please be careful out there.


End file.
